Setting out

Breakfast at Dread Hill was, Sam had long found out, the best meal of the day. Bacon and eggs. Fried bread with a slice of black pudding. Baked beans and sausage. Toast and ham. No matter what Mrs. Dalton had in store to start the day it was invariably so delicious, Sam had developed the habit of trying to guess what waited for her downstairs while she still laid in bed, attention stuck on the canopy overhead, nose searching for the notes of cinnamon, cooking meat or hot bread that would give the feast away. And, today—

Sam sniffed the surrounding air, already walking by the lion to the end of stairs.

Today was pie day.

Unfortunately, today was also one of those days that seemed set on giving her this weird sense of dejá vu. Here she was following the promise of delicious apple pie to the kitchen, she had walked by this weird pair of bags that were by the front door, gone passed the door to the dinning room, opened the kitchen door, stepped inside to find a bag of flour over the counter to the back, the jug from which Mrs. Dalton usually poured wine into the decanter still on the aisle, and the kitchen itself—

Sam looked around, fingers drumming against her leg, the customary "Good morning, Mrs. Dalton!" that had been just behind her lips coming to nothing as her attention went from one side of the kitchen to the other, from the converted fireplace to the fridge, and from there to the locked door to the back garden.

Empty.

The kitchen was empty. There was no one here. And, truly, if Sam had taken two steps back and opened the door to the basement to find that psychologist — Simon Hellborn, if she remembered correctly — getting out of David's private lab, she would straight up have thought she had traveled back in time. Things being as they were, however, she was standing on the very top of the stairs to the basement, looking down at the wine rack and the grates and the doors to the labs and there was no one in sight.

"Odd," Sam muttered, her voice echoing alongside dripping water as she stepped back into the atrium and looked around.

Surely, Mrs. Dalton was somewhere around here. Not upstairs, Sam mused, the statue of the veiled lady and the carved stone of the handrail coming into view as she looked up. If Mrs. Dalton had been there, she would have seen her already. But maybe she was in the dining room? There were these bags near the door, so... ah, maybe cleaning?

Come to think of it, thought, there were probably way more urgent things than finding out where Mrs. Dalton had disappeared to. Paramount among them what Sam had just glanced lying inside the oven, surrounded by a grayish smoke that was eloquent enough in saying what exactly was about to burn.

The apple pie.

"Oh! Uh!"

Sam was advancing on the oven now. She was reaching for the kitchen mittens hanging from its door, she was opening it, she was fanning this curtain of smoke that came blasting into the kitchen with her hands and reaching inside. As proud as she was of her timely rescue, the apple pie she had just put on the counter, was obviously not the only thing in need of rescuing this morning. In fact, Sam had just opened the fridge to fetch some milk when she heard the front door open. There were a pair of footsteps coming up the atrium, and before she could even wonder who — other than herself and Mrs. Dalton, of course — thought this was a good hour to be up, she got her answer of who had gotten the pie in trouble and who was himself in trouble right now.

"It's December, David!" Mrs. Dalton said, her voice rising from the atrium alongside the hissing of wind rushing inside. "Surely, this can wait a few more weeks!"

"I would argue that it can't."

"With Sam in the house—"

"Don't bring Samantha into this."

"I will bring her into this!" Mrs. Dalton replied, aggravated, the front door closing behind her. "Sam lives here and with Christmas just around the corner, surely the girl would like to spend it with us!"

There was a pause. Listening while leaning inside the fridge, Sam could hear how the footsteps outside had stopped. And then, in a voice so quiet, so soft that barely seemed to belong to him, David spoke.

"Us?" he repeated. "Us, Stella? You—"

There was that pause again. This time longer. Taking a peek from over the fridge door, unwrapping the chocolate bar she had fished out of one of the top shelves, Sam could almost see the way David had stopped, the way his torso had twisted so he could look back at Mrs. Dalton, that soft arching of his eyebrows as he looked at her. In her mind she could see all of that — as she could see that stern expression taking over his features, the one that made him stand there looking just like he was about to give a lecture.

"I will not hear another word about Christmas, Stella!" David finally snapped. "You will pack your bag. You will go to your sister. You will not get stuck with me during the season like during the last three years and end up spending it alone!"

Sam's eyebrows jumped about the same moment the door to the kitchen was pulled open. Standing there behind the open fridge door, the chocolate bar she had just unwrapped held between her lips, cold hitting her skin, she barely had time to give a muffled "Hi!" to David, she barely had time to raise a hand to greet him, before that wide-eyed look he was giving her — one that clearly stated he was not expecting to find her downstairs, much less in the kitchen — fell away and David charged forward.

"Good you are up," he said. "Pack your things we are going to Scotland."

Having made the very unfortunate decision of biting into the chocolate right that moment, Sam nearly choked.

"Sure," she half-coughed, looking at the back of an already-stepping-back-into-the-atrium David. "When are we leaving?"

"Today," he tossed inside the kitchen.

"Today?!" Sam cried out.

"David!"

David banged the door shut before Mrs. Dalton could come into view. Not that it made a lot of difference that he did, by the sound of it both him and Mrs. Dalton were still very much in the atrium and — as much as Sam would have liked not to eavesdrop — she certainly was being forced to.

"Are you sure you should—?" Mrs. Dalton was even now saying, her words being all but steamrolled by David's increasingly angry tone.

"Being locked in here is doing nothing for my work," he barked at her. "It is not like I have a choice!"

"Don't you give me that, David Styles!" Mrs. Dalton reprimanded. "You said you would take things slow! Give yourself time to—Scotland, David!"

The basement door opened, the voices became muffled, then disappeared all together when, with a new click, the door was closed. Standing here with her chocolate and with a still open fridge, Sam stared at the kitchen door.

Today?

If there wasn't a "David!" worthy of Mrs. Dalton somewhere in her lips right now it was because Sam was already exiting the kitchen, she was aiming for the basement, she was—

Her fingers stopped over the doorknob, the pair of muffled voices on the other side leaving her hanging there for a moment before Sam shook her head at herself, turned to the front door and grabbed one of the bags that she had seen laying there.

Other than the chilly wind rushing passed her once she stepped outside, the day was—Well, it was one of those rare winter days where there was a truly blue sky and not a cloud in sight. As beautiful as it was to see the sun wash over Dread Hill, warming its gray walls, painting the trees in something other than the gray of the leaves still clinging to them, Sam was far too busy regretting having picked up the heavy bag she was carrying to pay anything but the Bentley much mind.

The car was waiting in the driveway, trunk open, and thankfully just some meters away from the door. As far as Sam was concerned getting there was all that mattered. Getting there, struggling the bag she was carrying inside a somewhat packed trunk and—

Done.

It was done.

And Sam had just sat at the edge of the trunk to struggle some air back into her lungs when she heard the front door open. All it took was a glance there to find out David was making his way down the small flight of stairs and that he seemed to have shaken Mrs. Dalton off for he approached the car alone, put the bags he was carrying over the gravel, opened the door to the car's backseat, leaned inside and—

Sam looked back at David, watching him for a moment through the gap over the backseat. Then, she crossed her arms.

"Can I talk to you?"

It would have been much different if she had jumped from behind him, grabbed his sides and shouted "Boo!", she had just so startled David he tried to get to his full height with no consideration for the car he was leaning inside. It went as one would imagine: with a loud thump, an exclamation and David turning to face her over the backseat with a very much alarmed look to his eyes.

"Where the hell did you come from?!" he snapped.

"I was standing right here!" Sam exclaimed, immediately jumping out of her seat and rushing around the car to get to David's side. "How did you not see me?!"

There was no justification for that, at least judging by David's expression, that or he had actually hurt himself, something which, considering he was retreating from the car, massaging the back of his head, looked rather probable.

"Let me see that," Sam demanded, holding on to the open backseat door and David's shoulder for balance while getting to her tiptoes.

"I'm perfectly fine," David groaned.

"Yeah, that's the reason for the lovely grimace," Sam remarked with a quick glance at David's face. A second passed and she was back at trying to get a clear view of the back of David's head.

"You could help, you know?" she insisted. "Lean or sit or do something."

'Something' was definitely not turning his attention to her and straight up glaring, which was what, fingers pressed to the back of his head, David was engaged in doing right now.

"You became short overnight?" he snapped at her.

Sam rolled her eyes.

"No," she retorted and she let go of both the backseat door and David's shoulder to point straight at her feet. "But I am not wearing boots and you didn't exactly shed three inches in the meantime."

It must be the first time David looked at her, or anywhere at all considering his eyes had been mostly running over the driveway, the car and the trees without focusing on anything in particular. Right now, however, he was definitely looking at her, eyes roaming over the beige blouse she was wearing and the way it fell off her right shoulder showing the bare skin underneath, at the pale jeans she had on, and going by his expression Sam might have skipped clothes altogether and gone with a second head.

"That's different," David muttered.

Sam shrugged in answer, eyes dropping away from him and towards the long driveway, hands sinking deep into her jeans' pockets.

"I was planning on hanging around in the parlor all day," she confided, a glance now being given at the manor behind her before coming back to where David stood, dark hair being ruffled by the wind. "You know, practicing. I have got some new ideas for my act, I also think I can get the floating heads to work better than they did back at the Club, so—"

Sam did this up and down gesture towards her clothes.

"Practical," she said and crossed her arms. "Will you let me take a look at that or do I have to fetch Mrs. Dalton?"

David bored his eyes into hers at the threat, then shook his head and moved around the car, going to sit at the edge of the trunk. As far as letting her do anything, however, David's cooperation ended there. A pair of second later, and after standing in front of him stuck in a glaring match that might have taken the entire day, Sam ended up stepping forward and prying David's fingers away from his head.

"Skull is intact!" Sam immediately announced, her playful tone turning softer as her fingers combed through dark locks of hair. "Seriously, I think you are fine," she added, only to have her fingers graze David's skin and for him to shudder. "Kind of sore, though."

Sam frowned, the way David was back to pressing his head making her look at Dread Hill's front door and then at him.

"Do you want me to fetch ice or something?"

There was a long moment in which David sat at the edge of the truck saying nothing, a moment so long Sam became far too aware of the way her fingers were still combing through his hair, and then—

"I'm fine," he whispered.

It didn't sound like he was. There was this tremor to his voice. This breathlessness to his words. And David seemed to have noticed it as much as Sam had for he was on his feet now, arms crossed and glaring at Dread Hill House.

"You heard that row," he now said, attention jumping from the rows of windows on the first floor to where Sam stood near the car. "With Mrs. Dalton."

Sam tilted her head.

"Kind of hard not to," she pointed out, crossing her legs at the ankles when she took David's seat at the edge of the trunk. "The two of you were having it off just outside the kitchen."

David pressed the bridge of his nose at her words. It was the way his eyes went back to look everywhere and no where at all, however, that made the teasing tone to Sam's words drop out of her voice.

"Is there some trouble?" she now queried.

'Yes' seemed to be the answer. Rather than saying so, however, David squared his shoulders and, gravel snapping under his feet, went to face her.

"What did you want to talk about?"

Well, there was no beating around the bush today, was there?

"It would have been nice to know about Scotland earlier, you know?" Sam straight up said, fingers drumming against the thin fabric of her jeans. "Even yesterday. I don't exactly have things stockpiled upstairs. There are things I need to buy."

David's jaw had just tensed, Adam's apple moving up and down as he swallowed.

"It wasn't decided yesterday," he practically whispered.

And now Sam stared at him, hands falling back to her side, resting over the fabric protecting the bottom of the trunk.

Oh—

She blinked, attention still very much on David and the way he stood there, the windows to the parlor some meters behind him, fingers moving up and down the uncovered side of his face, looking slightly nauseated.

Okay. That was—

David had just looked her way, his eyes narrowed, was it something in her expression or her silence, it made the line of his lips grow thin.

"If you are going to ask if I thought this through—" David growled.

Sam's arms were back to being crossed.

"I was going to say it was very good of you not to hop in the car and leave me behind," Sam retorted. "But sure I will ask you if—!"

David raised a hand for her to stop.

"Don't," he cut through, that shiver creeping back into his voice almost making the words sound like he was pleading. "Just don't."

Sam's eyebrows drew together, her eyes keeping track of David as he made his way back to the Bentley and sat at her side, hands clenched and so close to her their arms were touching. Looking at him, however, noting he had sat with the right side of his face — the covered side of his face — turned to her, something Sam didn't remember him ever doing, she could but lean closer to him, fingers reaching for his forearm, closing around it.

The "Are you okay?" that was at the tip of her tongue, however, went silent when David spoke.

"As for leaving you behind," he was saying, leaving Sam's fingers to trace gentle lines on his sleeve. "That would be hardly wise when I need someone who can trick people into giving information. And that person is not me."

Sam's fingers stopped right over David's wrist. Distractedly playing with the small button, coming a little too close to unbuttoning it, she frowned at the trees and bushes on the flowerbed in front of the garage, then tilted her head and grinned.

"Trick people," Sam said, watching the way wind was playing with David's hair. "Noted."

David had just let out an audible sigh, the dark brown eye that was the only part of his face she could see beyond the mask going from blindly staring at the gravel around their feet, to looking, exhausted, at her.

"What I meant—"

Sam shook her head, fingers finally abandoning the button to settle over David's forearm.

"I know what you meant."

The rustling of leaves filled the driveway, the same wind that moved passed the large flowerbed in front of them, playing among the old trees and shrubs, pushing a large group of dry leaves that had been lying there into the driveway and towards the car.

Watching the leaves coming their way, jumping when they hit the gravel on their sides, Sam pressed herself closer to David and shivered.

Okay, being perfectly honest here, it was cold as hell to be sitting here wearing the thin blouse she had on, and as far as she had a ton of Scotland related questions she would like to toss at David, she hadn't in herself to go at it when he was looking like this, so—

Sam's fingers pressed around David's arm as she got to her feet. Hands running up and down her arms, she looked straight passed him and to the trunk.

"So, that ultra heavy thing of yours I dragged here and whatever all those other bags are, are already inside the car," Sam said, pointing to the bags behind him. "Do you want help with anything else? What is missing?"

David glanced her way, then at the trunk.

"Do you have your bag?" he immediately queried causing Sam to look at him and frown.

"Is any of those yours?"

Something flared through David's expression. Something that looked like—

Sam was doing her damn best not to have a single snort turn into a full blast of laughter.

"You forgot, didn't you?"

He had.

He really had.

And, the breeze going through the estate left to fill the driveway, Sam followed David inside Dread Hill and to the first floor. Disappearing inside her room, however, it didn't take Sam long to find herself with company again. A knock, this time on her bedroom door, and she opened it to find Mrs. Dalton standing there with a small pile of clothes in her arms.

"Brought you the rest of your clothes," she announced with a smile.

A bright 'Thanks!' later and Sam stepped back inside the bedroom. Following behind her, going down the small corridor while chatting, Mrs. Dalton ended up stopping right beside the bed, eyebrows raised.

"You are well on your way, dear," she commented.

Already on the other side of the bed, having to look across it to see Mrs. Dalton putting the clothes over the blankets, Sam stole a glance at the same bag Mrs. Dalton was looking at, the same one Sam had put over the bed, her eyes running over the tiny pile of clothes inside and the red fairy resting over them.

"I pack fast," Sam shared with a smile, her attention jumping to the picture of her parents on the bedside table in front of her. "And I don't have that many things to start with."

Mrs. Dalton's eyebrows were drawing together, her eyes following Sam as picked the picture and looked at the two occupants, trying to decide if she should put the frame inside her bag or not.

"You are fine with this, dear?" Mrs. Dalton asked after a moment. "I mean, being told to pack for Scotland within the hour, of course."

"Yeah, I'm fine with it," Sam replied, a quick glance being given at where Mrs. Dalton stood. "Why do you ask?"

Mrs. Dalton let out a long sigh. A head shake later and she was making her way to the dresser at the foot of the bed.

"I helped raise David," she said, her expression soft despite the stern edge to her voice. "I know how he is with work. You are really fine with this?"

A new glance at Mr. Dalton showing Sam she had stopped just short of opening the drawers, Sam frowned.

"If I wasn't I would just tell him," she told her. The frame she had held on her hand all this time was returned to the bedside table. "You really don't have to worry, I know how to take care of myself."

Mrs. Dalton gave her a fond smile.

"I know you do, dear," she whispered and leaned down to open the lowest of the dresser's drawers, her expression so worried that it was obvious she meant to say something more. It was only when she was at Sam's side, however, offering her a group of towels, that she turned back to Sam, voice low and urgent.

"Will you keep an eye on Dr. Styles?"

Having just rolled up the towels Mrs. Dalton had brought to her inside the bag — a bag that with just that, a pair of jeans, two corsets and a pair of shirts and tops held practically everything she owned — Sam turned to the governess, more than just a bit surprised.

"S-Sure," she stammered, towels now inside the bag. It only took a moment, however, for Sam to get hold of herself again, and smile.

"But I have this feeling David isn't the type to get lost in the wild if he is left alone," she said, playful. "Sure, I can't say the same about getting lost in his work—!"

Joking was clearly not the way to go right now. Standing at her side, Mrs. Dalton's expression was so heavy, Sam stopped what she was doing.

"I won't let David starve," she promised Mrs. Dalton. "Or turn into a zombie for lack of sleep. I will bring him back home safe and in one piece, I promise."

Mrs. Dalton smiled at the reassurance. Not that any of those things seemed to be what was truly in her mind. In fact, she remained at Sam's side as started going over Houdini's things, she stood there right in front of the window, the tall trees to the side of the house behind her, like she wished to tell Sam something—and maybe she would have done so if the sound of footsteps coming from the corridor hadn't given way to this voice.

"Samantha."

All Sam had to do was look back from her position in front of the dresser, take a peek down the small corridor leading inside her bedroom to find David right at the door with none other than Houdini in his arms.

"This thing was in my room again," he announced as Sam covered her lips. "I do believe it didn't get my message about the bunny slippers."

A snort escaped Sam's control. Looking at the rabbit then at David, she jogged down to the door and took Houdini's from his hands.

"At this point I would just give up, you know?" she said, caressing Houdini's head, eyes meeting the rabbit's red ones for a moment. "He will get what he wants no matter what."

David had just crossed his arms.

"If what he wants is to be sprawled in the middle of my bed, I very much doubt he will get it."

"Sprawled?" Sam repeated, eyebrows arched, and going back to Houdini. "Maybe, you are that kind of rabbit. Mind you," she turned back to David. "I can think of less comfortable places Houdini could get himself into than your bed."

David clapped his lips together.

"You are bringing that thing with you?" he went on to ask.

"I'm not leaving him here," Sam shot back. "Houdini has never been to Scotland."

David stared at her, then he closed his eyes, one hand carving through his hair before he released it.

"The rabbit," he said. "Has never been to Scotland."

"Houdini is a well-traveled rabbit, but—"

Sam stopped, the good-humored grin that had been on her lips slowly fading into worry.

"You did count him in, right?" Sam queried in a quiet voice, relief blossoming in her chest when David gave the question a dismissive wave.

"My apologies if I didn't find it a private room," he shot at her, causing Sam's grin to make a comeback.

"Oh, Houdini won't mind that," she teased. "He already decided to stay with you!"

David's attention dropped to the white rabbit in her arms, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he was on the verge of saying something, but instead he stepped back into the corridor, a soft grumble of "God help me" following in his wake.

Chuckling, Sam shifted Houdini in her arms.

"You are getting to him, Houdini," she told him, looking down at the rabbit and then stretching her neck so she could catch a last glimpse of David before he disappeared around the corner.

Lips parting slightly, a sensation of lightheartedness on her chest, Sam pressed the rabbit to her.

"He did remember you," she whispered, the light that was coming from the large window on the stairway painting a long blade of light over the carpet, over the suit of armor on the cabinet on the other side of the corridor, over the smile on her lips before she stepped back into her room, closed the door and found Mrs. Dalton still in front of the window to the other side of the room and with a deeply concerned look on her face.

Lowering Houdini to the bed, right hand running over his head and ears, Sam looked back towards the door she had just closed, and then at Mrs. Dalton.

"Is there a problem?" Sam queried in a quiet voice.

It felt like Mrs. Dalton had just been jerked awake. Startled, she looked up, the joy to her voice sounding forceful.

"No, no!" she chuckled and then continued.

"You should buy some warm clothes, dear," she advised, grabbing the blazer Sam had near her bag and frowning at it. "And a good, warm jacket. I don't think this one is up for the job."

It didn't matter how much Sam was frowning at Mrs. Dalton, that was something with which she had to agree. As she had that she would probably freeze to death if she braved Scotland's winter while wearing shirts and jeans. That being said that moment when she had picked the phone in the atrium and asked Helena to chaperon her around Oxford in search for warm clothes had gone from what had seemed like a hell of a good idea to proving to be a hugeHUGE mistake. First because it was possible that Helena was as interested in buying clothes for herself as to keep Sam company. Second because that had somehow led them to a lingerie shop. Third because—

"David is taking you on a romantic retreat to Scotland?!"

Sam raised both her hands in front of her hoping against hope Helena would drop her voice. Her effort might come a little late though: the innocent bystanders browsing through the same bra display Helena was at, had already jumped in fright.

"It is not romantic and it is not a retreat," Sam groaned, practically feeling the women to the other side of the counter glare holes into their skulls. "It's work."

Helena waved her hand, not to mention the pink bra she was holding, dismissively.

"It is whatever you make of it, dear," she remarked, confident, one the store's Christmas trees — one that was surrounded by three mannequins displaying the same short nightdress in different colors — peeking from right behind her. "My, my, what a twist."

Her long beige jacket under one arm, Helena went around the counter to where Sam stood. Her eyes gleaming, she leaned against it.

"Out with it," she said, that rich French accent of hers getting deeper by the second. "How long will you be staying? Where will you be staying? Is it a hotel? A cottage? Are you two sharing a room?"

Sam had to sigh.

"It's 'no' to that last one and I have no idea about the rest," Sam said, putting the bags she was carrying on the floor so she could massage her neck. "David wasn't all that specific. He just went 'we are going to Scotland' and—"

Still leaning against the counter, this sea of red and pink and blue bras at her side, Helena had just taken her attention away from Sam and given it to the bags around her legs.

"And your first thought when he said that was to renew your entire wardrobe?" Helena finished, impressed. "I like your way of thinking, Sam!"

Sam would spare herself from trying to call Helena's attention to the fact that six out of the eight bags Sam was carrying didn't belong to her. With her luck that would seriously backfire and Helena would end up dragging her all over Oxford until she had more clothes than she could possibly wear. Of course, not saying anything to Helena meant Helena kept at her own shopping spree.

"I think I like this one," she announced and with that she raised the bra she had had on her hand this entire time, holding it by the straps. "What do you think?"

Sam frowned. She didn't think she looked at the bra for more than a pair of seconds before speaking.

"It's not bad," she conceded and cooked her head when Helena frowned. "I mean, it's kind of pink—"

'It's kinda of pink' was definitely not the reaction Helena was looking for. Putting the bra back in its place, she stepped away, arms crossed and looked around at the many many counters and mannequins and Christmas decorations around them.

"I did wonder what was up with you and buying clothes, you know?" Helena now said, clearly thoughtful, no more than a dozen steps down the aisle where they stood leaving her face to face with this wide selection of definitely-not-pink bras hanging from their respective hangers on the store's back wall. "Why am I just finding out about Scotland?"

Sam pressed her lips, bags again going to rest around her legs.

"You didn't exactly give me any time to explain."

Which, considering Helena had dragged her inside a store the moment Sam had parked her bike, was the truth. Not that Helena's highly developed capacity for selective hearing allowed that to register. In fact, she was already soldiering on.

"I find it curious, you know," Helena indeed saying, fingers browsing through the many hangers with red bras in search of her number. "I thought David liked to have everything planned out. That laboratory might have been a mess but those experiments of his were very well organized. And now this and it is so sudden!"

Sam pinched her lips. A quick look behind them, at the sea of counters and the many people spread around them and she had turned back to Helena.

"That's kind of the thing," she confessed as her friend took this exquisite, tiny laced bra that didn't seem capable of holding much of anything at all into her hands. "I wanted to ask if you have time, I seriously need your help."

Aiming for the same model in a different color, actually getting on her tiptoes to reach it, Helena didn't bat an eye.

"What for?"

"Honestly?" Sam spoke. "I haven't the faintest, but David is shipping us off so fast that best-case scenario he is leaving half the things he needs behind. I mean, this morning he had forgotten to pack his clothes!"

The serious expression with which Helena listened to her had just fallen apart. She was not on her tiptoes anymore, instead she looked at Sam, fingers pressed to her lips in feigned horror.

"And you told him?" she queried. "Such a missed opportunity!"

Sam had to bite the inside of her cheek and not because for half a second there she had been very close to burst out laughing. No. The real reason was—

"Don't say you haven't thought about it!" Helena grinned.

The reason was—

"I am thinking about it now!" Sam exclaimed. "Anyway! If something comes up and we do need to—I don't know! Some research, or a book or something, it would be really helpful to have someone holding the castle. Do you have time?"

Helena was still chuckling as she went back to the display and her hunt for the same model of bra she had in her hand only in purple instead of red.

"Don't think I'm not flattered by you asking, Sam," she said, putting the bras she had picked on the basket she was carrying with a mischievous grin. "But wouldn't it make more sense to talk to Malik? He is the one studying Neurobiology. He is—He was a teaching assistant."

Sam's brow furrowed. She crossed her arms. There was absolutely no denying Helena's logic here. It would make more sense. And yet here Sam was, in a lingerie shop, with Helena.

"I would rather you did it," Sam put forth, the questioning look Helena was giving her making Sam cross her arms as they walked to another display. "Look, I trust you, okay? When things exploded in my face back in October it wasn't Malik jumping in a train to London, it wasn't him trying to warn me about what happened, it was you. Have you got the time or not?"

Helena had stopped mid-stride, that grin that had been on her face dissolving as she looked at Sam with what appeared to be mild-shock. It took her a pair of seconds to go back to herself.

"I will find time," Helena said, going straight for the nearest counter and what, judging by the mannequin to the center, were really really low cut bras. "It will be a pleasant distraction from all the study and exams. More importantly, though—"

Helena put the piece of clothing she had just picked back on its place, her expression deathly serious.

"Are you going to tell me anything else?" she asked.

Sam raised her eyebrows.

"What do you mean?"

"Dear, I want to know everything!" Helena exclaimed. "Everything that happens! I want daily reports and all the juicy details. How are you two getting along, is David any good at kissing, what is he like when you get him out of those clothes—"

Sam's heart had just engaged in back flipping inside her chest.

"Helena!" she hissed. Rather than taking pity on her, however, Helena continued.

"Dear, don't get all worked up!" she chuckled in good humor. "We are friends. Friends tell each other these things."

Sam's eyes narrowed:

"Are you going to start telling me these things?"

"Don't I do it already?" Helena sighed in dramatic fashion. "You know all about my lack of success with Charles. Also, I do care. And if you are to get your hands on David—"

Sam had just taken to massage her temples.

"I'm not going to 'get my hands' on David."

"I prefer to have the initiative," Helena shared and glanced at Sam. "But I admit bidding my time with Charles is being quite fun, so maybe you should do the same."

Sam raised her eyes to the ceiling, the neat rows of projectors that gave the store its intimate yellowish light and the Christmas balls and garlands crossing the ceiling coming to view as she asked the gods to guide her through this. That distraction, short as it was, was, however, enough for Helena to completely disappear from view and for Sam to end up alone right to the side of the display her friend had been browsing.

Looking around, trying to find Helena among the store's clientele, Sam ended up spotting her friend two counters down and picking up the tiniest, reddest piece of underwear she had ever seen in her life.

"This one?" Helena queried, the instant Sam stopped at her side and put the bags she was carrying on the floor once more. Looking at what Helena was showing her, at two tiny triangles that might just as easily belong to a bra or knickers, Sam's eyes couldn't have gotten any wider if she tried.

"Would you really wear that?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"Give me a reason not to," Helena said, serious. "It's cute, it's sexy—"

"If it is to wear something like that just walk in there wearing nothing."

Helena had just bitten into her lower lip, the mischievous gleam to her eyes turning into mirth, then laughter when Sam reached forward to take the—whatever it was—from Helena's fingers.

"You can't tell it isn't ridiculous!" Sam remarked, putting it between her two index fingers to show the inglorious thing to Helena. "Come on, I don't even know where this goes! What is it suppose to cover?"

Helena had taken to fan himself with one hand. Her struggle to breathe through her laughter was so great, however, that she could not talk for quite a while.

"You should sooo get something for yourself, Sam!" Helena finally managed to say as she put the tiniest piece of lingerie in existence back on top of its many equally inclined peers. "There must be something here you like!"

Frowning at Helena, for the first time caring to run her attention over the laced bras on the shelves to her right, the corsets hanging neatly on the walls and the nightdresses on the opposite end of the store, Sam found herself massaging the back of her neck.

"I mean, there is plenty I like," she admitted, back to following Helena as she zigzagged between the many clients that filled the store, the glimpse of the empty checkout counter making her friend gather speed at an absolutely amazing rate. "Some negligees are rather nice, but—"

Helena, who had just managed to reach the counter without any of the other clients beating her to it — and no wonder, for starters Sam doubted anyone else had even enrolled in that race — put her many purchases to the side of the Christmas-decorated register, and looked back.

"But?" she asked, air falling over her shoulder.

Sam sighed.

"I'm kind of already bleeding out money in the clothes I do need," she pointed out, raising the bags on her hands to prove the point. "Why would I go around spending it on things I don't?"

That glance Helena had just traded with the cashier—That hadn't been Sam's imagination. They both had looked at each other like they had just witnessed some terrible act of heresy.

"It is not about needing them," Helena remarked and took this long piece of black fabric the cashier had just registered into her hands. "See, isn't it pretty?"

That had to be a trick question. Sam doubted anyone, and she meant anyone, regardless of them wishing to wear it or not, would say the long silk nightdress Helena had just put in her hands was anything but beautiful. Sure, Sam had a thing for old-fashioned stuff and the nightgown had all this embroidery of red roses running up its left size, also this pretend corset on the lower back—Okay! So she really liked it! The thing was—

Sam had just put her hand under the smooth fabric, she was moving it back and forth and frowning.

"It's transparent," she pointed out, looking from her hand — whose pale skin had just have changed color to this blackish hue — to Helena. "Why would I bring something like this to Scotland?"

That had been the silliest question she might have uttered. Sam should have known what was coming. She knew what was coming. The smiling young woman who had just now returned the payment terminal to the cashier and was leaning her way was Helena after all.

"Because a certain someone might like it," she whispered.

Was flinging the silk nightdress at Helena's head the right response right now? Because Sam was under the impression that her cheeks had just flashed bright red and that was about as appropriate as shoving the thing back on top of the rest of her friend's many purchases and dragging her out the store the moment she was done with paying. Which was kind of what Sam was doing. It was definitely what she was doing!

"You are having too much fun with this," Sam groaned, the cold winter breeze that was going down the street freezing the tip of her nose the moment they stepped out into Oxford's old streets. "Way too much fun!"

Helena was chuckling.

"Can you tell?"

"Are you even trying to hide it?!"

Helena snorted, the jacket she hadn't had time to dress now sliding up her arms.

"So, where are we going next?" Helena queried.

Not into another clothes-store was Sam's honest answer and with that they made their way down the street, walking under the Christmas lights hanging overhead and by storefronts decorated with Christmas trees, mannequins dressed in festive clothes and various nativity scenes, until they reached that bookstore just next door to the Black Wand and made their way inside.

Sam's finger had just stopped over the spine of a small book on the second hand section, her nail, painted black, drawn against the red pages, when the underlining topic to her last conversation with Helena made a comeback.

"Let's pretend I am interested," Sam put forward, her choice of words making Helena give her an eye roll from behind the book she had just opened.

"There is no 'pretend,' you are interested," Helena pointed out, attention running down the text inside. "But go on."

Sam bit her lower lip. Attention going to her reflection in the store's large window, she shook her head and turned to Helena.

"Even if I was interested," she said, not giving an inch. "What chance do I have?"

Helena either had just chosen to ignore the tone to Sam's words or became so engrossed in the book she was flicking through she didn't notice it. Either way, she didn't even look up.

"One better than anyone else," she instead stated and, looking at Sam from over the book, sighed.

"Sam, I could understand this if you actually were a student, but you aren't," Helena noted, putting the book back on the shelf. "And I know you want to make a move on David. What can possibly be stopping—?"

A book fell out of the shelves right behind them. Turning, heels clicking on the wood flooring of the store, Sam was actually grateful for the distraction for the half-a-second it took for a pair of large hands to push a row of books to the side and for this round face, this known face, to stare at them from the other side of the book display.

"You like Styles?!" Harvey exclaimed, immediately starting to jog down the parallel aisle when Sam and Helena tried to flee for their lives. "Oh, come on! You are not leaving me out!"

Six hours later, loading Houdini and his cage into the Bentley's backseat, saying goodbye to Mrs. Dalton and Helena on Dread Hill's driveway, Sam would find herself still shaking her head.

This was going straight into one of Harvey's scripts.